The Ragged Edge of Night(69)

In the silence that remains, Elisabeth looks soberly at Anton. Something is terribly wrong.

“What is it? Has something happened to Maria? Is she sick?”

“No, Maria is perfectly well. It’s nothing like that, nothing of that sort.” She glances up the stairs, to be sure the door to their home is well shut and little ears can’t hear. “I’ve heard the news this evening, while you were at the school. Frau Hertz came over and told me.” For one wild moment, still riding on his wave of hope, he thinks the Red Orchestra has finally played its deadly chord, and someone, the chosen assassin, has made his move against Hitler. But if that were so—if they were liberated, as suddenly as that, Elisabeth would never look so grim.

“What is it?” he whispers. “Tell me.”

“It’s about those students from Munich—that group that called itself the White Rose.”

“Yes?”

“The SS arrested two more students today, Anton. They aren’t even proven to be White Rose members; they’re only suspected of having some connection to the resistance.” She pauses, fixes him with an unblinking, significant stare. “You know they’ll be executed.”

“I know.”

He can sense the fretful storm inside her, the need to say more. Still, she hesitates, drawing a deep breath. She presses her fingertips between her eyes, as if fighting back a headache or her own dark thoughts. The words claw their way out at last, though she won’t give them more than a whisper. “It’s too dangerous to fight back. We can’t stand up to the Party.”

“It is too dangerous; you’re right about that. But we must fight, all the same. You know in your heart it’s right. I haven’t forgotten the ham—do you remember? You were beside yourself, fearing you’d insulted that poor, hidden family with your gift. I’ve seen the way you look at our house sometimes—the way you eye the attic. I know you’ve wondered whether we could hide any innocents there.”

“But I would never go that far. I have my own children to think of—our children, Anton. I can’t risk their safety. Neither should you.”

Anton knows Elisabeth is right. But neither is he wrong.

Once, in Munich, he found a pamphlet published by the White Rose. It was a small thing, a leaflet, and what’s more, it was half burned and discarded behind a wall when Anton came across it, as if whoever dropped it there had been ashamed of having read it and had tried to destroy the evidence. But what shame could those words have roused in any honest soul? What he read on that charred scrap of paper still blazes in his heart. He has never forgotten those words—not a one. Like scripture, they rise whole to the surface of his thoughts. Like his wedding vow.

Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be governed, without opposition, by an irresponsible clique that has yielded to base instinct. It is certain that today, every honest German is ashamed of his government. Who among us has any conception of the dimensions of shame that will befall us and our children when one day the veil has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible crimes—crimes that infinitely outdistance every human measure—reach the light of day?

Those students were children when they started the White Rose and laid the foundation of resistance. Only children, hardly older than Albert and his friends. He remembers a building in Munich, the great green letters painted on its flat, windowless wall, the words of the White Rose: “We will not be silent. We are your guilty conscience. The White Rose will never leave you in peace.” When he came across the graffiti, the paint was still wet and dripping. He pressed his fingers against the words to feel the life in them. Threads of vibrant green remained embedded in his fingerprints for days.

The Schutzstaffel, with their hard eyes, their guns, their black boots marching in lockstep—they may put us all on trial. They may try to break the spirits of our youth, but the young people are Germany’s guilty conscience, the teeth gnawing on the bone. And we are Germany’s conscience. The words of the White Rose are truer now than when they were written. The longer this party remains in power, the harder we must work to tear away the veil of our shame.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Elisabeth says, “whatever it is you do for… them.”

He hasn’t told her, I am only a messenger, and surely messengers are in the least danger. We only carry words. He hasn’t told her; it’s better if she knows nothing. One day her ignorance may preserve her, if God is merciful. He has only reassured her that his involvement is peripheral, incidental, and that much is true. But these days, mere association with suspected White Rose members is enough to get you arrested. In Munich, they will kill you for who you know. There is no point trying to reassure her, no point in telling her, I am safe. It would be a lie, at any rate—and Anton has promised himself he will never lie to his wife again.

She says, “I can’t lose you, Anton. I need you. I need you in my life.”

He takes her hand. He risks a careful touch, running his thumb along her knuckle. Her hands are roughened by endless work. “I will stay safe. I promise you that.”

But he will not give up this work. Wir schweigen nicht, wir sind euer b?ses Gewissen.





25

It is a bright Sunday morning. The birds of early spring are singing as beautifully as they ever did in the days before there was war. Maria, dressed in her white finery, a little bride-like figure ready for her First Communion, can’t leave the breakfast table alone. Elisabeth tries in vain to keep Maria distracted from the porridge and apples to which her brothers attend with their typical appetites.